If They Hadn't Always Been
by Avelera
Summary: Two AU drabbles and one non-AU Rorschach-centric character study. In another world, a man hesitates outside a costume store and passes on. Costumed heroes never leave the pages of comics, a man is never de-atomized. The world goes unchanged. A look through the veil at the lives the Watchmen might have led. AU, references made to the movie and the original comic.
1. If They Hadn't Always Been

**If They Hadn't Always Been**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Alan Moore, DC Comics, etc. and so on.

Author Note: These drabbles were written soon after the release of the 2009 movies and contain references to both the movies and the original comics. At the time I was taking a course on the history of comics, and I tried to work in some references to the way American changed and was changed by comics during the 20th c.

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In one of the many worlds and alternate realities that Everett dreamed and Dr. Manhattan confirmed, there are no shredded bodies splattered across Manhattan, hanging from windows and splayed across the asphalt. Instead there is no blood at all, only atoms scattered and confused as a form indistinguishable from Dr. Manhattan wreaked its vengeance against the nations of the world, ending their childish squabbles with godlike suddenness and fury.

In another world, a pickpocket starving from the ravages of the Depression hesitates in front of a cheap stage prop store not far from Vaudeville, hesitates, and passes on. He does not put on a mask for his heist and is gunned down within minutes of entering the door. No copycats are born; no vigilantes take up the hood to combat anonymous villains. Pirate comics fall out of vogue, Superman transforms from a strongman vigilante into an unstoppable defender of truth, justice, and the American Way. Just as comics enter their most patriotic, they are hobbled by the Red Scare, the seduction of the innocent.

Superheroes become ridiculous, if they hadn't always been.

Young Daniel Dreiburg prepares for college, hides his comics in a box at the back of his closet. He's growing up, and superheroes are for little kids. His parents call to him, tell him its time to go.

Little Laurie is told she cannot have dolls. Her mother says they are part of a society bent on enslaving her to a feminine code. She is given comics instead, The Black Cat, and she dutifully pretends to read it.

Walter is never given comics, and as a budding teenager struggles his way through a chaos of right and wrong, whores and Madonnas. He can find no straight line and feels himself drowning in a sea of filth that he cannot escape and cannot refuse. He is disgusted and fascinated and he shudders even as heat gathers in his groin the first time a ragged prostitute, only a few years older than himself, grabs his arm and asks him if he wants to become a man. He freezes, feels his gorge and his cock rise. He runs.

World War II is over; there are no more heroes. There is nowhere to turn and nothing to strive for. Dr. Manhattan is an aging scientist, a professor at Harvard. His marriage is calm and placid, the fire gone out years before. He is a student favorite. They love the story of how close he came to nuclear de-atomization. He does not tell them about the nightmares, the ones where he is a god hovering above the surface of a red planet and he can feel nothing. The horror of that silence.

One of those students is a young man named Veidt, who is scared by his own fascination with power. He is struggling with his studies, too brilliant, too directionless. What is a modern Alexander to do, when his father is the Phillip of a crumbling financial Macedon and Olympia struggles through the day in a Prozac-induced haze? Where does power lie? He has not yet decided if it is more worthwhile to kill or save. Are the deaths of millions the price for one man's immortality? He has not yet decided if it is worth it. He has not yet decided if he will survive the week.

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Author Note: I'm on a bit of a Watchmen kick right now and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please leave a comment if you find these drabbles in any way pleasing :)


	2. Fires from Heaven

In a world without superheroes, where Hollis Mason never became young Dan Dreiburg's idol and then his mentor, the young Jewish boy has a few moments to himself and he is wandering the shelves of the library. It is his first week and everything is still bright and new, but he is intimidated by his fellow students and their extroversion. He retreats to the library and lurks the comfortable shadows between the shelves as if they were a sheltering cave, eyes wide, head swiveling as he searches out the ornithology section. The library is almost empty so early in the semester, and high up on the third floor there is nothing but the books and the silence.

Eyes trained on the numbers on the spines of the books, he does not notice the other boy until they've collided as he rounds a corner. Both start, Daniel steps back and finds himself looking up slightly at a blond boy in a sweater-vest and collared shirt. His hair is impeccable, and Daniel can't help but feel mousy by comparison.

"Oh, hello," says the blond, and the words _Aryan posterboy_ flit across Dan's thoughts. "Are you looking for something?"

"A book," Daniel says a bit stupidly. The blond arches an eyebrow. He looks older than the other students, perhaps a teacher or a graduate student. "Umm, this one," he adds and shows the scrap of paper where he had scribbled the call number of the compendium he was looking for. The blond glanced at it.

"That would be in the quarto section, near the stairs," he says.

"Ah, thank you," Dan says, ducking his head as he feels his ears begin to heat. He steps past the other man, eyes wandering to the title of the thick novel clutched in his hand. Fires from Heaven, a novel of Alexander the Great. The blond's thumb obscures the author's name. Dan looks up, sees the blond is still looking at him. "Dan Dreiburg," he says, holding out a hand. The other man smiles.

"Adrian Veidt," he says, and accepts the handshake. It is firm, and the hand is cool and dry, self assured. A businessman's handshake.

"You're a Classics student?" says Dan, then realizes how nosy he must sound.

"Amongst other things," Adrian replies, the smile resting easily on his lips. "You're a freshmen, I assume?"

"Yes," says Dan, shifting from foot to foot. The encounter was already going on longer than he would have liked.

"I thought so, otherwise I would have recognized you. You're interested in ornithology?"

"Err, yeah, how did you know?"

"The call number. I spent a week reading through that section sophomore year."

"Oh," said Daniel, his heart sinking a little. "Is it not a very big section?"

"On the contrary, we have seven hundred forty three books, though some are redundant and pedestrian."

"But you said…"

"At times I have trouble sleeping, and knowledge is always worth pursuing." The man, Adrian, pauses as if surprised that he has said so much. "It was nice meeting you, Daniel," he says and turns to leave.

Daniel stutters a farewell. He feels awkward, clumsy, and cold, as if someone had walked over his grave. He rubs a hand over his arm to warm himself, the vent of the air conditioner reminds him of the Arctic. He does not know why his mind jumps to that comparison. He does not think to wonder how Adrian guessed his full name.

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Author Note: I hope you enjoyed this little drabble. If so, please consider leaving a comment!


	3. No Image Untainted

He does not care for appearances, they are less honest than masks, they lie without proclaiming they are doing so.

Sometimes he does think of sex, he is human after all. A particular person in particular flits across his imagination and at times he will allow the image to stay a bit longer. Sometimes, when he dreams, he is lost in it. But he awakens feeling sickened, his mind befouled and his stomach threatening to rebel. It takes the city air and purity of purpose to feel clean again.

What is worse is that he is not as unaware of sexual technique as the other Crimebusters seem to believe. He heard the muffled cries, and whimpered instructions through the paper-thin walls. But there were also times were hunger drove him to kitchen, where he would find they had not made it to the bedroom. As a tiny child he had been scared, confused, and uncomprehending. He could not understand the contorting bodies, the slap of flesh on flesh. At thirteen he did understand, and not just understand the unclean animal response, but something of how to pleasure a man, or a woman. Just because it sickened him, it didn't mean he didn't understand.

He had awoken to painful erections, made more so by his inability to relieve himself. There was no image not tainted, even if he kept his mind utterly blank the images would intrude, the pretty flowers, the snarling humping forms of his mother and whoever had paid her that night. Then, sickened, it would go flaccid in his hand and he would lie back, struggling to keep his gorge down, cold and empty but still in pain.

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Author Note: A bit different from my usual style. If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment!


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